39 Perfectly Fine Emma Storley Harper used to love the night, and the darkness it encompassed. It always felt so peaceful. It embraced her alongside the arms of her mother, who would have long since fallen asleep with a book and Harper in her grasp. Face pressed against the warmth of her, Harper would listen to the melody that was her mother’s fluttering breath. Some nights, when she could not stop the thrill of thoughts racing through her mind, she would shake her mother awake. “Will you read me just one more story?” she would ask. And no matter the hour, her mother would smile and oblige. But things have changed. The light of the morning came like a savior, washing away the shackles of cold sweat that held her down. Still, she lay in bed and willed the rapid pounding of her heart to slow—she needed to steal whatever moments of sleep she could. Even the freezing, irregular stream of the shower couldn’t wash away all indications of the cruel night. Her weighted eyelids struggled to complete their motions, as if trying to hide the blood-shot eyes that lay beneath them. Thankfully, it wasn’t the blood that drew attention. Her eyes were lost—absorbed by the dark clouds surrounding them. Looking into the mirror, Harper forced herself to see past the darkness and into her fading irises. “Nothing is wrong with me.” She felt her lips begin to crack and bleed with each word. “I am perfectly fine.” She jumped at the sharp clang of a shower stall door slamming shut. A girl emerged from a cloud of steam. Harper recognized her face but couldn’t place a name. She clung to the tiny green towel that wrapped around her body, her hair twisted in a bright blue one. The girl did not bother to hide the look of disdain on her face as she looked her over. She hesitated for only a moment before turning on her heels, leaving nothing behind but the squeaks of her flip-flops and a muttered “freak.” Although Harper’s eyes now avoided the glare of the mirror, she didn’t blame her. Instead, her gaze fell on the flashlight that rested in her bathroom bag. She slipped the threaded strap attached to its end onto her wrist, wanting nothing more than to believe the girl. With the relief of sunrise, the stopwatch started—counting down the hours, minutes, seconds until night returned. Soon followed the plaguing pit of dread, first in her stomach, then in her chest—creeping its way through her until it had infected every tingling cell. The nightmares had started just over a year ago. They began slowly, crawling their way into Harper’s mind like they were trying to avoid suspicion. That’s when they were normal, expected nightmares—the kind that made her relive her mother’s final moments, or the ones that silenced her screams. When she woke from them her breath would be heavy, hands trembling, surrounded by the flood of tears on her sheets, but she knew they were over. After the terror had passed, she felt the wave of relief thaw her bones. It was a feeling she almost grew to crave. Now, Harper longed for the return of nightmares.
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